


the sun and its shadow mourn their lost stars

by hardkourparcore



Category: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 19:24:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21415405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardkourparcore/pseuds/hardkourparcore
Summary: Ephraim and Knoll have a little chat
Relationships: Ephraim/Knoll (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	the sun and its shadow mourn their lost stars

**Author's Note:**

> this is something i've been sitting on for years. originally, it was part of a collection of lyon sleeping around and loving both the twins and knoll, but i fell out of love with the idea and this is all that remains in entirety. if i revisit it again, you can consider this an epilogue

Ephraim glances up from the stack of reports he'd been studying. He looks over to Knoll, sitting at a desk of his own, writing quietly. Everything the shaman is seems to be molded from the shades he commands. His quill doesn't even make a sound as he writes, and Ephraim cannot fathom how.

He mirrors Lyon in many ways, in Ephraim's memories, but he knows that if he were to speak too quickly Knoll would never startle or squeak. He's somehow rougher than Lyon, sharper in ways Ephraim hasn't yet fully uncovered.

He stares for a bit too long, and just like Lyon never would have, Knoll looks up at him. He carries a gaze that seems bored, uninterested.

“Is something the matter, Your Majesty?”

Ephraim's new title falls easily from Knoll's lips. He doesn't know where the shaman comes from, but he's so comfortable with royalty in ways that some vassals would never be. Ephraim isn't as used to hearing it as it seems Knoll is saying it.

“I was only wondering something...”

That is the reason Knoll is here, anyway. Ephraim hired him some time before to assist in purging the world of dark magic's taint, and who better to assess the stains than one who was so intimately familiar with their work, make, and creator? They speak little, but Ephraim is always unsure of how to speak to him, and he will not speak unless spoken to.

Ephraim pauses for too long, or must have, because Knoll goads him to continue with a polite and curt, “What is it, Your Majesty?”

“Right.” Ephraim clears his throat. “Where do we go when we die?”

Knoll stares, but he does not seem shocked by this kind of query. He has an unreadable face. No matter how many times Ephraim looks and studies it, he can never tell which questions of Ephraim's are like a child's to him, or which are given more thought.

There is a brief silence and Ephraim is worried that this question falls under the former – that Knoll is only taking this silence to subtly shame him. That's the other thing about Knoll, he's so good at noble games that Ephraim still has yet to learn.

“...You're thinking of Prince Lyon,” finally Knoll says at length. Ephraim does not need to voice his answer. They both know the truth.

Carefully, with an eerie grace that reminds him of Lyon as if Ephraim were watching him from a broken mirror, Knoll places his quill pen in the ink well. He does this when he expects a conversation with Ephraim to take a long amount of time (Ephraim knows this, at least), and his expectations have so far always been met.

“May I ask, King Ephraim, where you believe we go when we die?”

“I don't know what to believe,” he answers honestly. As strange as they are together, King Ephraim and Knoll, the honesty allows them to get along, even if Knoll remains little more than a shrouded spectre to Ephraim. The slight upward curve of Knoll's eyebrows suggests that he likes this answer, but Ephraim continues regardless.

“The common belief is that those who lead just lives will go to a paradise of some sort, as was created for the heroes for their deeds and is granted to those that came after them, and that those who live evil lives are denied entrance until they atone in one way or another. In Renais, this means waiting for however long, depending on what you've done. In Jehanna, if I recall correctly, they believe a sinner would be reincarnated until they get it right.”

“Yes,” Knoll says. “And in Grado, it's believed you are merely doomed to an eternity with the Demon King, if you were truly horrible.”

“And with no Demon King... That surely can't be the case.” Worry enters Ephraim's voice. He can't perceive it himself. “Regardless, to answer your question, I formerly held the standard Renaisian belief. Now?

“I've been having nightmares... Of Lyon, trapped inside some sort of vast darkness. He keeps calling out for me, but I cant help him before the darkness swallows him whole.”

“Ah.” Knoll finally looks away, something else entering his gaze that Ephraim still can't understand.

He is quiet for a moment, and Ephraim always lets Knoll take all the silence he needs. He does not, however, look away from the shaman.

“The part of our research –” 'Our' still includes Lyon here. Sometimes, the way Knoll speaks, one might not know he was truly dead. “– that I haven't yet discussed with you was our... divination. Of seeing into the future.

“I'm sure I don't have to tell you that fortune tellers are everywhere, with varying degrees of accuracy. You could go to the Harvest Festival and find thirty that all tell you different futures. It isn't the same as what we were doing. Ours was much more accurate, more specific. We investigated every method, every wives' tale of prophetic warnings. ...Lyon was much more talented at it than I, but I'm sure I need not remind you how gifted he was with any spell that graced his lips.”

Ephraim agrees in silence.

“He was always ravenous in trying to see which was the best method, the most precise way of seeing into the future. One week, he poured a thousand cups of tea, and had all of the servants drink one, so that he could see how precise the reading was.” A slight smile crosses Knoll's face, something Ephraim has only seen rarely before. “We both drank six each ourselves. Another week, he filled so many bowls of water that one well ran dry and did not recover until the next spring. Another week, he spent the entirety in bed. Though he was ill, he was more interested in measuring the prophetic nature of dreams.”

“What did he find?” Ephraim asks, perhaps a little too eager.

Knoll holds his smile. Ephraim's never seen him hold one for so long without it turning melancholy or bitter in some respect. He never seems to keep one genuinely, they're always in sarcasm or drollness. Those kind of jokes can fly over Ephraim's head sometimes. “Any dream he had foretelling an event was an event he'd already seen elsewhere. He dreamed of some of the visions in the water, for example. He dreamed of the many spells we attempted. He wrote each dream down, so that he could check to see if anything else he dreamed of came true, but I know in confidence that they did not.”

“Such as?”

Knoll's smile leaves. “Marrying your sister, for example.”

Ephraim goes quiet. It takes a moment before Knoll continues again.

“My point is, Your Majesty, that he found dreams are nothing more than thoughts given life by a sleeping mind. Perhaps your fear of Lyon in an abyss is merely a reflection of your concerns for his soul. The Demon King, if I recall, boasted about consuming him whole. It may be merely that idea took root and is the cause of your dreams.”

Ephraim nods. He ponders this for a moment, and considers the surprisingly thoughtful tone Knoll carries. He notices Knoll's staring at him, and he isn't sure what to think of that. After a moment, he smirks.

“You didn't answer my question.”

Knoll smiles. “You weren't content? Alright...

“Truthfully, I cannot say for certain. The existence of variance in the place of where we're supposed to go or how we're supposed to get there suggests none of them are correct. As a scientist, I favor Occam's razor.”

“...Which is?”

“The most simplest answer is correct. I believe that when we die, we merely cease to exist. There is nothing, and we cannot comprehend such non-existence, so I cannot describe it to you.”

Ephraim let loose a small chuckle. “That's the scientific answer then?”

“As far as I know,” Knoll replies. He's still smiling. It doesn't seem like the same smile he uses when he's telling a dry joke. “If you choose to believe it...

“It means Lyon no longer exists, and there is no joy nor pain, so you may believe he is resting peacefully at last.”

Another silence. Knoll seems to have thought about Lyon's passing in such lengths as Ephraim has, but with considerable knowledge to help him come to a better resolution than Ephraim.

“Thank you, Knoll,” he says at last. “I can see why Lyon was so fond of you.”

Knoll's face turns pink, and he quickly turns his head away from Ephraim to hide it. “F-fond? I was merely his vassal and research assistant.”

Ephraim chuckles again. “My friend would not tell you the contents of his dream journal if he didn't consider you his friend. For those times when Eirika and I hadn't visited him, I always worried that he was lonely and sad without some one to talk to. I'm glad to know he had you.”

“Y-you are too kind, Your Majesty,” the words are automatic but the tone is not the same as he's heard from Knoll before. This time, it's more vulnerable, less practiced and clipped. More genuine.

Knoll flinches at Ephraim's next question: “Can you tell me about the thing using Emperor Vigarde's skin?”

It could be an accusation, a damnation. Ephraim could be cruelly denying any friendship he and Knoll may have formed in the time they've spent together, but Knoll knows he isn't, and that's what makes the question so hard to answer. Ephraim is nothing but genuinely curious. He doesn't have any idea of how much or how little Knoll contributed to the-thing-that-was-once-the-emperor. It's written on his face plainly.

“Barely.” Knoll's voice is so quiet initially. Ephraim doesn't hear him. He repeats himself before the king requests it. “Hardly, Your Majesty. It is true that I originally assisted in the research that culminated in its make, but I did not perform the act myself and cannot say for certain how it was done.”

_Or by who's hand, _he thinks bitterly.

Ephraim doesn't ask, and Knoll doesn't say that Lyon had started the experiments and the Demon King, inside his body, finished it. He doesn't want to tarnish the gentle prince's brilliant name in Ephraim's eyes. The Demon King had worked hardest at that, but Knoll will gladly take all the credit for the original idea of raising the dead. He's done worse things, honestly.

“You were the one to end its existence, correct?” Knoll continues, choosing his words carefully. “You saw its rotting flesh, the dead eyes... That vessel held nothing, raised its lance for nothing. It was more convincing when the Demon King still cared about it.”

Ephraim's expression softens, but Knoll looks away. The Sun of Renais, as the people call him, is too bright for some one who dwells in darkness to gaze too long upon.

“Before Your Majesty suggests anything...” The coldness sneaks back into Knoll's tone, harsh and clipped. His teeth bite off each period. “I discontinued the research as I reached a dead end.”

(Knoll would never take credit for Lyon's brilliance, only his mistakes. He will pile on regrets like stones until the weight one day crushes him, if it means Lyon still remains a smiling beacon of purity in the back of any one's mind.)

“There are spells for preserving corpses, for reversing rot, for reanimating limbs and creating, however scant, a sliver of cognition. There are not spells to restore the person you remember, as you remember them. You saw the emperor. I assume you knew him better than I, but even I know that was not Prince Lyon's father.”

Ephraim remains quiet, considering Knoll's insistence. It sounds like a warning, not an explanation. “...You're worried I'd request the same happen to Lyon?”

“...I would not allow you to make such a mistake in ignorance, Your Majesty.”

“But you would allow me to make that mistake?”

Knoll doesn't answer, because if he did, Ephraim might be ashamed of him. He supposes, in the back of his mind, that he will always be doomed to be loyal to a fault when it comes to his lieges. He did whatever Lyon asked because he loved him, and he will do whatever Ephraim asks, because...

He is repenting. That is all.

“Lyon talked fondly of you,” Ephraim changes the subject, thankfully, but Knoll flinches again. He's breathless, too, a tiny gasp exiting his lips, and he holds it until the king continues. “He never used your name, but it's obvious now that you're who he was referring to.”

Knoll's next question dies on his tongue. He can't bring himself to ask what kind of things Lyon said of him, because that feels like the opposite of repenting.

Ephraim, however, answers it.

“He said you were brilliant, the smartest man he'd ever met. He said you were more loyal to him than he could have ever reasonably asked for. He spoke of you like a friend.”

Knoll's head spins.

Ephraim must not notice, because he chuckles. “He never mentioned your dark humor or dry wit, or how you know just how to say things without words.”

The shaman glances up at Ephraim only incredulously, face colored a deep red. Ephraim, at this point, seems to have abandoned those reports he was working on. Instead, he holds a bemused smile, chin resting on his folded hands.

Knoll can't meet his gaze for long. It's too bright, he'll burn out.

“There's something strange about you, Knoll,” he says.

That's a better sentence. That fits him better. It's more comfortable.

The king stands, and Knoll hurriedly returns to his writing. It feels as though he was just discovered slacking off, or he'll be punished for something else he didn't do.

“May I try something?”

Shyly, he dares to look up at Ephraim. “Y-yes, Your Majesty?”

Ephraim leans down and kisses Knoll, in one smooth, fluid action. Knoll, surprising himself, kisses back. It lasts longer, perhaps, than Ephraim was intending, but he is satisfied as he draws away.

It is neither's first kiss, but it is the first kiss to pass between their lips. The twinkle in Ephraim's eye, as he pulls away, and the butterflies caught in Knoll's throat, however, make it doubtful to be their last.


End file.
